


Échate pa’ ca

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Everyone feels bad and nothing happens, M/M, Reggaetón RPF - Freeform, Self-Destructive Tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25121452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Sky laughs because the alternative is to cry.
Relationships: J Balvin/Sky Rompiendo
Kudos: 3





	Échate pa’ ca

Sky leaves on a cold Tuesday in November.

He walks out of Balvin’s apartment in New York, shoulders hunched up against the frigid air that rips through the city and threatens to take his hat with it. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, wishing that his anger was enough to keep him warm.

It isn’t, but it is enough to keep him walking, to keep him from turning around and getting his coat. He can’t go back for it. He won’t come out again if he does.

He walks until he realizes his feet aren’t taking him anywhere useful, and then he calls a ride and goes to the airport. He sits in the lobby of JFK and makes beats on his phone until it dies. Then he goes and buys a plane ticket home.

He scrutinizes the other passengers as they board. He’s not even sure what he is looking for, but he knows it when he sees it, like a slap in the face. The guy is maybe twenty, in skinny jeans and those fucking rainbow Nikes. Sky laughs because the alternative is to cry.

The guy looks over at him. Sky nods upwards, with a quirk of his eyebrows.

“What’s up,” the guy says in response, hesitant. He has a heavy Paisa accent and a lip piercing. Sky watches his mouth as he talks.

Sky leans across the aisle to ask if he can borrow a charger. When his phone turns on, he feels morally conflicted about angling the screen so this guy can see it, can see who he talks to, what he does, figure out who he is. He’s not conflicted enough to not do it, though.

They sneak off to the first class bathroom when the rest of the plane is asleep. It’s only marginally bigger than the regular one, but it’s something. Sky closes his eyes the whole time and makes himself think about nothing. But thinking about nothing makes him think about the way Balvin would think about nothing when he was meditating, and say he was thinking about nothing, out loud, clearly lying, so he opens his eyes and tries not to inhale too deeply. First class shit doesn’t smell any nicer than economy.

Sky gives him a fake number when they land.

—

Balvin calls him a week later. 

“We’re not done,” he says. “Come back.” 

“Are you single?”

Balvin hangs up on him.

—

Sky writes eighty-five songs, and all of them are exactly the same. He gives one to Jhay and the rest he keeps on his laptop, in a folder called “Miscellaneous.”

Jhay messages him immediately.

_Cabrón what the fuck_

Sky doesn’t answer the question.

_Do you want the song or not_

He doesn’t reply, and Sky takes that as a yes until Jhay sends another message.

_I’m sending it to Bad shits too emo for me. Take care of yourself hp_

Sky starts writing another song.

—

Balvin calls him a week later.

“Why’d you give that song to Benito?” he asks.

“Are you jealous?”

Balvin hangs up on him.

—

Sky fucks ten people in two months at home, including his ex-girlfriend. She sticks around afterward, not unwelcome, but not invited, either.

“Are you okay?” she asks him, lounging around in one of his shirts. He wonders if she’ll steal it.

“No,” he says. “Why do you think I asked you to come over?”

“You’re such an asshole, Alejo. You haven’t changed at all.”

Neither has she, but that doesn’t mean they need to talk about it. Sky says as much, and she rolls her eyes at him. Sky really hopes she doesn’t take his shirt.

“If you wanted change, you shouldn’t have come,” he says. She’s already called him an asshole, no reason to buck expectations.

“I wanted you,” she says. Sky stares at her, and then he laughs so hard the bed shakes.

“Why?” he asks her. “Still?”

She blows air out of her mouth, directed at a stray piece of hair that’s partially stuck to her forehead. “I don’t know. Ego? I used to think I could change you, you know. Make you calm down for once. But I never had a chance. You were already married to your music. And José, I guess.” She laughs, and then she brushes the hair out of her face. 

“He’s in New York,” Sky says, answering her unasked question. He glares, unfocused, into the space above her head.

“Oh,” she says. “When are you going?”

Sky looks at her again. “I think now is _your_ time to go.”

She puts her hands up, defensive. “Wow, okay.” She grabs her things, shoving them in her bag. She leaves barefoot, or at least he thinks she does. He doesn’t walk her out. He stays on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sure enough, she took his shirt with her. 

—

“She left,” Balvin says over the phone.

“Are you single?”

Balvin doesn’t hang up this time, but he doesn’t answer the question, either. “She left,” he repeats, as if saying it more than once will make it mean more than it does.

“Did she break up with you, or is she just gone?”

“Are you coming back or not?”

Sky stares at the ceiling, and then he closes his eyes. The skin of his eyelids isn’t thick enough to block out the glare from the light above. He squints against it, even though that’s ridiculous with his eyes closed. Balvin is still on the line.

“Fuck you,” he says finally.

“That’s the idea,” Balvin says, and Sky laughs because the alternative is to cry.

—

“You owe me a shirt,” Sky says as he opens the door to Balvin’s apartment.

He’s barely inside when Balvin throws one at him. It hits Sky in the stomach with more force than he was expecting. Sky lets it bounce off him and land on the floor.

“You’re so on top of things,” Balvin says. “How’d you know?”

Sky picks the shirt up off the floor and unfolds it. It’s orange. There’s a Murakami flower printed on the front.

“I’m good at my job,” Sky says, voice flat. He looks at the shirt again, and his stomach starts to twist.

When he looks up again, Balvin has moved closer.

“What would I do without you?” he asks, and then he’s invading Sky’s personal space. Sky has his new winter coat on still, and his boots. His phone is in one hand, the shirt in the other. He starts to say something along the lines of “you’d be fucked,” but Balvin swallows down his words, kissing him hard before he can put anything in the space between them.

Sky drops all his shit on the ground, phone cushioned by its enormous Sailor Moon case. He knew it would come in handy. Sky stumbles out of his boots, pushing Balvin backward, not sure if he’s doing it because he wants Balvin gone or because he wants Balvin. But then they’re kissing again. Sky doesn't like to ask questions he doesn't already know the answer to.

They fuck in the bedroom with the view, and Sky watches the city below them. It’s an obvious metaphor for being on top of the world, but if that were really the case, Sky wouldn’t be here. He’d be at home or in Japan or on Mars. Anywhere else but here. Anyone else but him.

—

Balvin says he has a special project, and Sky briefly entertains the hope that it's something new. Maybe he'll model the orange shirt. Maybe he'll be testing recipes.

"I wrote a song," Balvin says, and Sky unpacks his laptop and his headphones.

Sky works on it day and night. He starts with a hard, rolling dembow, but even though the lyrics are meant for a perreo, he doesn’t like it. He slows the beat down, slower, slower, too slow. He starts again with dancehall, but he’s not happy with that, either. He goes back to slow, fucks around with the instrumentals until he winds up with something mid-tempo, loose and seductive. He adds a trap drumline and takes it out again, going back and forth a few times until he decides against it.

He tells himself he’s doing all this to keep busy, to keep away from Balvin, but they’re still sleeping together, so that’s objectively a lie. There’s no keeping away from Balvin. It’s his voice in Sky’s ears all the time, and when he takes the headphones off, it’s still there, telling him everything that he wants to hear and nothing that is true. Eventually, Sky turns the volume up, drowning out Balvin with Balvin. At least he knows what the recorded version is going to say.

_Como tú brilla’ mi nena, le ciegas al sol_

_Pero te conocí en la oscuridad, éramo’ sólo tú y yo_

_En el medio del party con el humo y el alcohol_

_Y no fue por la mari que perdí el control_

_Tú me tiene’ loco, me desespero si no te toco_

_Me enciende’ este fuego, por ti lo quemo to’_

—

Sky puts off finishing the song as long as he can. But he has to wrap it up eventually. He can’t keep pretending he’s making it into a vallenato like he did the day before. It actually didn’t sound that bad, but Balvin didn’t buy it.

“Stop fucking around,” he’d said. Then he’d stolen Sky’s headphones off his head and dangled them out the window.

“Look who’s fucking around now,” Sky had grumbled at him, trying to disguise the genuine terror he felt as he watched one of his babies being held hostage. He’d snatched them back, inspecting them for damage before glaring at Balvin and shooing him away.

Sky presents the finished project at midnight, kicking Balvin in the shin to wake him up. He jumps, startled, and sits up from where he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, rubbing his leg.

“It’s done,” Sky says solemnly, starting to hand over his headphones. But then he thinks better of it and hands over a second, less expensive pair. Balvin notices the slight, and he flicks Sky in the ear. It stings.

Sky watches Balvin listen, head nodding along to the beat, occasionally singing backup vocals to accompany himself.

Balvin hands the headphones over when he’s done. He looks at Sky, smiling. “Naranjo,” he says. “It’s perfect. You’re a genius!”

“I know,” Sky starts to say. He barely gets the chance to smile back before Balvin is on him, tackling him out of his chair and onto the floor.

“You’re a fucking genius,” he says, each word punctuated by a kiss to Sky’s mouth or his neck or his jaw. Balvin shoves a knee in between Sky’s legs, forcing them apart, but Sky anticipates his move, pulling a foot up to brace against Balvin’s hip. He flexes his leg, pushing himself sideways, and wriggles his way free. He climbs quickly on top, straddling Balvin’s hips and pinning him to the ground by his wrists.

“I am a genius,” Sky says.

“You are everything,” Balvin says, not fighting him anymore. Sky leans down to kiss him, letting up his grip on Balvin’s wrists. Balvin’s hands move to his waist, then up to his chest, shoving his shirt off and onto the ground next to them.

Sky wastes no time getting the rest of his clothes off, and Balvin’s, too. He looks down at Balvin, naked, all tattoos and hard muscles, and wonders if what he’s feeling is real. If Balvin is real. If the music they make is real, if any of it matters because this is what he wants, even if it isn’t real at all.

“You good?” Balvin asks him, running a hand over his hip.

Sky says the first thing he can think of, jolted back to reality by the touch and the voice. “Is this how you make all your other songs? How you and Diplo do it when I’m not around?”

“For a genius, you’re really dumb,” Balvin tells him, still running his thumb over the sharp ridge of Sky’s hipbone. “It’s you. It’s only ever you.”

—

It’s not just Sky, though. There’s a never-ending cast of characters rotating through Balvin’s life and his apartment.

Feid spends a few days with them, and he brings good weed. They banish Balvin out onto the balcony while they hotbox the living room. Sky doesn’t know if it takes four hours or twenty-four, but by the end of it, they have no more weed and very elaborate plans to start a supergroup with Mosty, Tainy, and Justin Quiles. Feid advocated hard for Justin so he wouldn’t be the only one whose name doesn’t end in Y.

“Producers only,” Sky tells Balvin, who pokes his head inside to check on them.

Balvin pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. Sky looks at his stomach where the skin is exposed.

“You’re high,” Balvin observes.

“He’s Sky!” Feid chimes in helpfully. “Sky is high, high is sky, Sky as high as the sky.”

“Jesus Christ,” Balvin says, and he goes back outside.

Nicole comes next, and Orli after her. They both stay almost a week, overlapping by a day or so. Nicole is all business, phone calls, meetings, upcoming projects, collaborations. She even has Balvin’s meal plan from the nutritionist. Sky tries to poach her to come work for him, but Balvin threatens his laptop the same way he did his headphones, and he quickly backs off.

Orli is the opposite of Nicole. He fades into the background, and most of the time Sky forgets he’s even there until he sees the pictures. Balvin posing, Balvin meditating, Balvin laughing. Sky does his best to stay out of Orli’s way, but he’s a sneaky fuck, and he gets several good shots of Sky, working, hunched over his computer, deep in concentration; daydreaming, staring out the window at the sky; showing something to Balvin, smiling at each other.

Scooter visits once, for exactly thirty minutes. Sky can’t hear what they’re saying, so he watches instead. They speak tersely, their sentences punctuated by angry hand gestures and a lot of head shaking. Sky sees them looking in his direction several times, but later when he asks Balvin what Scooter wanted, Balvin waves him off, telling him not to worry about it.

Valentina even shows up one day, for an even shorter time than Scooter. Sky barely sees her before the door shuts, but she waves at him on her way out. Sky doesn’t realize he should wave back until she’s already gone.

Eventually, Sky gets better at entertaining. Or at least, he stops edging around the corners of the room, sneaking off with his laptop so as not to interfere. Benito swings by with Gabriela in tow, and the four of them throw ideas around on the couch. When that gets old, Sky beats them all at FIFA. Someone orders a pizza, and Gabriela has to physically restrain Benito from shoveling the whole slice into his mouth before it cools off. Balvin eats half a slice, complaining about the grease, and they all boo him.

Sky starts to forget why he left in the first place.

—

“Naranjo” never gets released. Sky means to ask Balvin about it, but he gets distracted by Balvin hovering over his shoulder, doing pushups in the living room, sneaking up on him in the shower.

He’s busy with work, too. One song snowballs into many more, and they have a million other things to work on, once their guests are gone. Sky allows himself to think of the guests as “theirs,” and he smiles to himself. Balvin notices, and he smiles back, nodding.

“This is great, yeah,” he says, pulling gently at Sky’s headphones so he can hear the music, too. His fingers brush Sky’s cheek.

Sky smiles wider.

Here, his makeshift setup is not nearly as good as his studio at home, but he’s twice as productive in New York. He stays up late and wakes up early, and Balvin is always there. They feed off each other’s energy in an endless game of chicken, pushing each other towards some unarticulated goal as they write song after song, album after album. They have enough material for who knows how many projects, but they can’t seem to slow down. There’s always a better beat, a catchier hook.

They’re unstoppable together, Sky thinks. Together they chase perfection, and sometimes it feels like they’re getting close. It feels good. It feels familiar, like his orbital trajectory has corrected itself, colliding again with Balvin’s as they fly around the sun. It’s inevitable, a force of nature; it’s been that way since he was eighteen years old. Sky versus gravity is a fight he’ll always lose. 

“Maybe this is all there is,” he says to Balvin one night. Very late is starting to become very early, and Sky is pretty sure Balvin is only still up because he is.

“I hope not,” Balvin says.

“No?” Sky asks. “This is pretty good.” He gestures at the space around them, but he’s not sure if he means “this project,” or ‘this apartment,” or “this life.” 

“There has to be more,” Balvin says. “There has to be.”

“Maybe. But what if there’s not?” 

“There has to be.”

—

There is more, but it’s nothing new.

Balvin, never one to leave his life up to the whims of the universe, decides one day that it’s time to win his girlfriend back. She begrudgingly says yes, and Sky starts looking for flights home.

"You don't have to go," Balvin says.

Sky stares at him, mouth agape. "You're fucking kidding me."

"We're still working on the album."

"We have like fifty songs."

"Maybe I want one hundred songs."

Sky closes his eyes. When he opens them, Balvin is still there.

"Stay," Balvin says. He's looking at Sky full on, pleading, though he won’t say the words out loud.

Sky, against his better judgement, gives the slightest nod of his head.

He regrets it as he starts moving his things out of Balvin's room, but regret tastes better than swallowing his pride. And pettiness tastes best of all. If Balvin wants him to stay, he’s going to make himself unavoidable.

Sky becomes a permanent fixture in the living room. He moves all his equipment to the coffee table and sits on the sofa for sixteen hours a day, despite how much his back complains. Sometimes he falls asleep there.

He ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling that doubling down on his mistake is a bad idea. He turns the volume up instead.

Sky makes just as much music as before, but none of it is for Balvin anymore. He stays up late working on everyone else’s project, pet project, friend of a friend’s pet project. He makes sure that Balvin knows it, too, talking loudly on the phone to anyone who will answer his calls. Sometimes he invents fake artists that he’s supposedly working with just to see if Balvin will call his bluff.

He doesn’t. He goes along with the act, pretends like Sky sleeping in his living room is nothing out of the ordinary. He comes home late with his girlfriend and yells in a whisper that they have to be quiet because they'll wake up Sky, despite the fact that Sky is usually up until four or five, and the fact that Balvin _knows this_ because they overlap when Sky goes to bed and Balvin wakes up. Sky rolls his eyes at their giggles and turns his music up.

Balvin also tries to touch him whenever they’re alone. And sometimes when they're not. He always has an excuse to be in the living room, to reach for things just inside Sky's personal space, a pillow, the remote control, a book he's never even opened. Sky starts to make sure there's never anything within a two foot radius of his person, but even then Balvin invents ways to get close to him.

Sky’s resolve is starting to wear thin. He tries to keep Balvin away with sheer animosity. He comes up with strange and complicated insults for everything from Balvin’s hair to his shoes. None of it has any effect. Balvin is relentless.

He has Sky trapped between the balcony and the living room, hands on his waist, and Sky is about to kiss him back when instead he yells. They break apart just in time, and Sky lies about seeing a mouse. 

Balvin stops after that, and Sky moves to the guest room for real, barricading himself in. He only comes out at night, stealing food out of the refrigerator and not bothering to replace it. He makes sure to be in bed by three.

He has no reason to be there anymore, but no one asks him to leave. Eventually the strangeness of the situation wears off. Somehow, they get used to the status quo. They’re just fucked up roommates, numb to all ways they try to hurt each other.

—

New Year's Eve comes, and Balvin spends it with his girlfriend. Sky, feeling a renewed sense of pettiness from the upcoming completion of another trip around the sun, is also there, getting trashed on expensive champagne.

He should be networking or something. There are people at this party that he’d love to work with, or even just talk to, but instead he plants himself at the bar and attempts to drown himself in consecutive bottles of Dom Perignon.

Sky hates New York so much. He relates this fact to the bartender, who politely disagrees in a Nuyorican accent. Sky frowns. “What do you know?” he asks, and then he answers his own question, “probably more than me. You have a mixtape? I’ll produce it for you. I swear to God I’ll make you famous.”

“Take it easy, boss,” the bartender says, carefully moving the bottle out of the way as Sky gestures angrily. Sky is about to ask for another one when he’s interrupted by loud cheers and fireworks. It’s midnight, and everyone is kissing. Sky stares at the empty bottle and wonders if he could start a fight with it. He imagines smashing it over an anonymous head, watching the glass shatter over obnoxiously dyed hair.

Suddenly, there’s color in his peripheral vision.

“You okay?” Balvin asks him. “You look like you’ve had a lot to drink.” He sounds concerned, the asshole.

“I’m fine,” Sky says. “Go away.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” Balvin says. “Why don’t we get you home, okay?”

“Fuck off.”

“No need to be rude,” Balvin _tsks_ at him. “Come on. Let’s go find a cab.”

Then Sky is being manhandled out of his seat and escorted to the door as if he really had smashed the bottle over Balvin’s stupid head. He should have done it. He thinks about making a break for it, running back to the bar, and snatching up the bottle. But Balvin has a firm grip on his arm, marching him out towards the lobby.

They make a detour, though, Balvin jerking him into a vacant room the caterers are using to store their equipment. Sky almost falls, the sudden motion too much for his body to process in its current state. He overcorrects and crashes into Balvin as the door closes behind them.

“Woah, okay,” he says, propping Sky up against the wall. “I just said that to get you alone. I didn’t know you were really... okay, don’t worry.” Balvin looks at him, eyes gone big and soft, and Sky hates how gentle his voice is, how he talks like a parent comforting a small child.

Balvin pulls him in to hold, pats him on the pack, and rubs his shoulder blade in small, soothing circles while he talks in Sky’s ear. “I’m glad you came. It’s not the same without you.”

“Eat shit and die,” Sky tries to say, but it comes out an unintelligible mess. He leans his forehead against Balvin’s shoulder and tries to summon the energy to throw up on his shoes.

—

Sky wakes up feeling like death. He rolls out of bed and just barely gets onto his feet. He stumbles out of the bedroom, praying no one else is home as he shovels a handful of Advil into his mouth and half a liter of water to wash them down.

“Fuck,” he says as he plants both hands on either side of the sink and concentrates all his willpower into not throwing it all back up. He hears footsteps behind him, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before turning around to face Balvin.

“Good morning,” Mona says, looking concerned. “You feeling okay? Seems like you had a rough night.”

Sky marshals his face into something that might pass as a smile, then whips back around and turns the tap on, splashing water on his face. Mona offers him a towel when he finishes.

“You want some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Sky says, and he runs away to hide in his room.

Sky lies on the bed with his eyes closed, feeling his brain bounce around in his skull. He tries to find a beat in the pattern, but there's only pain.

There’s a knock on his door. Sky groans. He cracks one eye open in time to see Mona standing uncertainly in the doorway. She has a cup of coffee and a bottle of water for Sky.

“Just in case you change your mind,” she says.

Sky clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says.

“Let me know if you need anything. It’s just me here. José went to see the people from the label. I think he’s getting close to finishing the album. Well, you’d know more about that than me.” Mona laughs nervously.

Sky nods and thanks her again.

Mercifully, she leaves him alone after that, and he feels like shit in ways totally unrelated to his hangover.

—

Sky leaves on a cold Tuesday in February. It’s so long overdue that he has to laugh as he packs his things carefully, removes every trace of himself from Balvin’s apartment to make room for the roses and balloons that have appeared overnight. He spends the flight in a hazy euphoria, high on codeine, listening to his entire production discography, minus the latest.

—

Balvin calls him a week later.

“She’s not here,” he says.

Sky says nothing.

“I mean, we had a fight, and she went out, so we can talk about things. If you want to.”

Sky hovers his finger over the end call button.

“Are you mad about ‘Naranjo’?”

Sky blinks. “What?”

“It was just for you. I thought you knew that. I wrote it for you. It’s not on the album because it’s for you.”

Sky takes a very deep breath, and then he laughs, because what alternative does he have.

“No, it’s not,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Balvin sounds genuinely confused.

“‘Naranjo’ is not about me. How can it be about me? It’s about a woman.”

“No,” Balvin says, dragging what should be one syllable into far too many. “No, I mean, technically, yes, but no. It’s for you.” He repeats himself.

Sky digests this information. Finally, he says, “you made me produce my own gift.”

Bavin breathes as if he was about to start talking, but he doesn’t say anything. Sky waits him out.

“You’re the only one I trust to produce.”

“No,” Sky says again. 

Balvin sighs. Sky imagines he has his face in his hand, his thumb rubbing at the space in between his eyebrows. “The shirt was for you. Really, I thought you knew. There’s only one orange flower.”

“Thank you,” Sky says because he doesn’t know what else to say.

—

Sky calls Balvin a week later. He leaves a voicemail.

“I produce your music, not your life. You can’t leave me in the background to make yourself look good.”

Balvin calls him back sooner than Sky expected.

“You did that yourself,” he says. “I didn’t put you in the background.”

“Bullshit,” Sky says immediately. “You never broke up with her. You never—” he cuts himself off before he finishes the sentence. _Chose me_ echoes in his head, loud enough that he doesn’t hear Balvin’s response. But he knows what it is, _I never what?_ “Nothing,” Sky says. “Never mind.”

“How could I?” Balvin asks, because he’s always been able to read Sky’s thoughts.

“Easily,” Sky says. “If that’s what you really wanted.”

“I don’t not want you.”

Sky rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t. Maybe you do. I don’t know what you want, and I don’t think you do, either. But fuck you either way.”

“I’m sorry,” Balvin says.

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Say you’re coming back.”

Sky laughs, loudly, because the alternative.

—

The alternative is to go back to New York and kiss Balvin in front of his girlfriend and his label and his phone broadcasting live.

—

The alternative to the alternative is to just go back. Sky gets on a plane and wonders if he’ll be a prisoner of gravity for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as something else entirely and took a sharp left turn without my permission. It turned into a story about "Verde," a song [Sky says is the kind of song he would make if he was a solo artist.](https://www.vice.com/es_latam/article/pkyeyk/sky-rompiendo-arquitecto-del-sonido-del-pop-global) I tried to capture its repetitiveness and its heavy reliance on production.
> 
> I started writing slightly before Sky posted [this story](https://imgur.com/mFOqM6f) and finished it the day J Balvin posted [this one,](https://imgur.com/sruOjrC) about a week before [“Anaranjado”](https://open.spotify.com/album/0zaTpRYJxC8jAtzwUstNhx?si=sl6RROlUQvO3f4umxr6c0g) was released, which thoroughly freaked me out.
> 
> Fun fact, this is set in 2022-2023, the next year that Valentine’s Day will fall on a Tuesday. "Verde" gives me Tuesday vibes. No, I cannot explain that further.


End file.
